


Fights

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anxiety, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Established Relationship, Fear, Fighting, Learning to Fight, Love, M/M, Marco Protecting Jean, Marco teaching Jean, Protection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fights just happen sometimes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fights

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the MultiShipping Week.  
> Day 7: JeanMarco "Fighting"  
> And if you want a song to listen to, I recommend [Stellastarr* - In the Walls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndMLjiX3BOM). It's what I listened to while writing it.

Fights happen sometimes.

There isn't a whole lot else to say about it really. Fights just happen sometimes.

But it's still a little bit of a shock when Marco - sweet and docile Marco, of all people - is the one I have to face. Outside the library, with a hand on my shoulder and firm expression on his face, he tells me matter-of-factly to meet him after my afternoon class gets out.

All in all, I like to avoid fights. The trouble with that is that fights sometimes just don't avoid us simply because we want them to, and that's a fact I know all too well. And so, as Marco stares at me with big brown eyes that could swallow a person whole, it's all that I can do to nod at him, silently agreeing with his demand.

My last class of the day passes far too quickly for my liking, and before I know it, it's over and time for me to meet Marco face to face. I slink off towards the quad outside the library, noting that he's already there waiting for me with a grim look on his usually bright face.

I know that it's the bruise that's painted across my face, the blackened puff of my eye, swollen and ugly, that worries him.

With a bag slung over his shoulder, he reaches a hand out for me as I approach, and slips his fingers against mine once I reach him, pulling me to walk by his side towards the gym without a word. He leads me forward, into the fitness center, past the main gym, winding the two of us down the stairs towards the typically desolate basement studio. At the bottom, Marco drops my hand, shucking his bag down to the floor and unzipping it quickly. He pulls out a spare set of workout shorts and turns to me.

"Brought those for you," He mumbles, tossing the shorts to me, "Probably be easier than wearing jeans." Marco shrugs and yanks out a few other items from the duffel.

Glancing around the corner, I head wordlessly down towards the small locker room, changing my clothes quickly. When I return, Marco's got a pair of gloves under his arm and two long wraps in each of his hands.

Without allowing me to protest, he tells me that he's going to teach me to fight.

He steps towards me, takes my hand and begins to wrap the fabric around my wrist and hand, lacing it around my wrist, through my fingers: tight, almost too tight to be comfortable. I think he can see the slight discomfort on my face at his motions.

"They need to be a little tight... Protects your joints. Don't want them too tight though..." He finishes tying off the first and moves seamlessly to the other hand. Once they’re on, he steps back.

"Wiggle your fingers a bit..." Marco instructs me gently.

I do as I'm told, wiggling gently, noting the slight bend the wraps permit.

"Your fingers don't feel numb or anything, do they?"

"No... Think they're okay."

"Okay, good. Here," Marco hands me a pair of gloves, "put those on."

I do as he's instructed me, steadily slipping the gloves on as Marco pulls on a pair of flat mitts onto his own hands. I feel awkward and cumbersome wearing these gloves, unused to the feeling of their weight on my hands. Once they're on and the velcro tightened, I can't help but shrug nervously.

"Do we really need to do this?" I ask him softly.

Marco pauses for a moment and heaves out a heavy breath. He yanks off one of his mitts and approaches me slowly, bringing one hand up to my face. I try to shy from his touch, not because of any pain, but more so because I don't want to acknowledge the presence of the sickening hues of blue, yellow, and purple that litter my face. I don't want to acknowledge the other bruises that span the expanse of my body.

Marco sighs, gingerly touching my cheek.

"Look... I just... Those guys... I'm upset I wasn’t there... that I couldn't help. That, that this happened to you at all... So just humor me, please? I just wanna make sure you can... you can at least defend yourself a bit if – god forbid – something happens again."

I nuzzle slightly into his touch, reveling in the gentleness of the pads of his fingers against the flaring heat radiating across my cheek. And so I nod, and Marco forces out a smile, leans forward, kisses my cheek before sliding his mitt back on.

He shows me quickly how to stand, where to hold my hands - always in front of my face, always guarding and ready - he shows me quick jab-cross and hook combinations. And next thing I know, he's holding up his mitts and telling me to hit them.

"What?"

"Do the same combos you just did, but now hit my hands."

"Okay..."

I stand at the ready, and jab forward quickly with my combo into the pads on his hands. But I know I've held back, too nervous to put any power into it, too restrained and afraid.

"Not bad! Do it again! But don't hold back!" Marco tells me, clapping his mitts together and holding them up for me once again.

The second time, I try to do as he's instructed me, suddenly blocking out my brain and letting the power that I know resides in my muscles to flow out through my punches. The instant my gloves come into contact with his mitts, there's a surge that flares up in the pit of my stomach, twisting and churning, exhilarating and nerve-wracking. The sound of the collisions makes a resounding ‘ **CLAP’** echo through the empty studio.

"Good!" Marco shouts, "Again!"

I throw my punches again like he tells me to: Jab-Cross, Left Hook-Right Hook, Jab-Cross, each punch hitting with more power than the one before it. Clap. **Clap!**

"Good!"

Marco smiles with each and every punch I throw, nodding encouragingly as the power surges through.

I feel hot inside, each punch a sudden bout of energy seeping out of me: a grunt, a rush that screams not to get to close to me. I punch again. And again. Each one flinging harder, a bit wilder, a bit less controlled. Clap. **Clap!** Again. And again. Suddenly aggressive. Defensive. Bitter. _Angry._  

With every swing of my arms, I feel my vision going whiter, burning up bright until I'm blinded, with only an urge to fight and scramble: throw it harder, harder, harder each time. Bam. Bam. Faster. Keep moving. I throw another punch, another, and another, each one coming into contact with Marco's mitts more violently. Harder, rougher, more, _more_.  

Eventually, and I hardly even notice it, my punches are met not with mitts, but with Marco's arms blocking me, knocking my arms to the side with each blow I try to deliver. I want to stop, I do, but I can't. I can only think of the burning, metallic taste of blood in my mouth, the way the bastard's fist had felt hitting my face, the way he'd spat, called me faggot, and I just can't stop myself.

Just vaguely, I hear Marco's words calling out to me, but they're muffled, like I'm underwater.

"Easy, Jean, easy!"

But I can't ease up.

I can't make myself slow down.

The next punch I throw hits empty air, and Marco has already yanked his mitts off and is grabbing ahold of my arm. In one fell swoop, he spins me around, pulls me tight against his body, arms at my sides, back pressed flush against his chest. Vaguely, I note that I'm struggling, squirming in his grasp, and there's a feeling of hot wetness on my face.

"Easy..." Marco whispers into my ear as I struggle again, the fight steadily slipping out of me.

"Ease down... Ease down. It's okay."

His words hover around me, coming better into focus with each breath I take, and eventually, the fight in me begins to die. My body calms, my motions cease, heaving, gasping pants puff out of my lungs as I tremble in his arms. My muscles suddenly burn, my eyes itch, the bruises over my body tighten and ache with each pulse of blood that beats through my body. Vaguely, I feel Marco press his forehead into the nape of my neck, his breath tickling the hairs, sending goosebumps coursing along my skin.

I breathe hard; and I’m suddenly tired, so very tired.

"It's okay..." Marco breathes softly against my skin. "You're okay, baby. I'm here."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! I hope you liked it. 
> 
> I'd love to hear any comments or feedback you have! 
> 
> As usual, I have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com). Feel free to check me out.


End file.
